


In A Most Delightful Way

by fideliant



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consent Issues, Established Relationship, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fingerfucking, M/M, Sleepy Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliant/pseuds/fideliant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking care of Thorin while he's ill in Laketown is a job that must be done. Bilbo soon finds the element of fun, though the job still turns out to be a job of its own kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In A Most Delightful Way

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back for a rediscovered [prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3651.html?thread=6930499#t6930499) on the kinkmeme:
> 
> _Thorin sleeping naked for whatever reason while they're travelling – Bilbo’s curiosity gets the better of him._
> 
> _Bonus points for size-kink._
> 
> _Double bonus points for Thorin waking up in the middle of a blowjob, and he doesn’t stop Bilbo._
> 
> This... is really creeptastic behaviour I'm writing about. Consent is deep into the realm of the dubious kind in the following content. This is dubcon as dubcon gets, probably on the cusp of slapping the next level of trigger warnings onto it, so reasonable discretion is advised with reading.
> 
> If you know where the title and summary comes from, you must know that I'm already drafting a letter of apology to the Dame Andrews.

The river ride down from the Woodland Realm leaves the entire party sopping wet, bruised and terribly grumpy. Bilbo thinks that they’re overreacting, really — it hadn’t been that rough a ride as far as he remembers, clinging to the outside of a barrel being tossed about in the whiplash of current. Sure, he supposes that he can consider that none of them have been eating as well as he has, but what’s a hobbit to thirteen strong dwarves?

Especially in light of one of those thirteen already having proved how strong he can be, exactly how loving with hugging and king-worthy kissing and semi-clothed rutting.

True enough, they make it to Laketown on their feet, some of them beginning to sniffle a bit along the way. Bilbo himself battles a sneezing fit for a short while, but he changes out of his soaked clothes and has a nice hot cuppa the first thing after they settle in and that solves that problem for good.

The tea he makes for Thorin doesn’t help much when Bilbo finds him sprawled in bed on sweat-soaked covers, murmuring deliriously with half-closed eyes and a fever burning across his forehead.

After Bilbo is done fretting and panicking and gathers enough of his wits to call for help, the town doctor and Oin conclusively diagnose Thorin with a case of sweating sickness, most likely brought on by prolonged exposure to the cold of river water. Nothing unmanageable, though it is agreed that bed rest and keeping him cool is absolutely necessary for the dwarf king to recover, which Bilbo is immensely relieved to hear.

They shift Thorin to an airier room with better ventilation and undress him and put him to bed again, using the thinnest blanket they can find to preserve his modesty but also trap minimal heat in doing so. Bilbo tasks himself with taking Thorin into his care, regularly sponging him all over with water to bring down his fever, changing his soiled sheets and feeding him chips of ice when Thorin is lucid enough to take anything by mouth without choking.

This goes on for three days as Thorin shows no sign of improvement, and Bilbo’s worries build again even though Oin reassures him that recovery from sweating sickness is a slow but exponential process. For the most part, Thorin lies limp and mumbles incoherently whenever he regains partial consciousness before dropping back into sleep again, and Bilbo watches him with his heart aching. It has only been a few days, but already he misses Thorin’s kisses and the way the dwarf holds him tight and the sweet things he never fails to coo as he pets his hair, the feeling of being coddled oddly endearing to Bilbo. He still kisses Thorin on occasion to show his affection while the dwarf sleeps, but that Thorin almost never responds or takes notice makes Bilbo sigh and sit back to watch him sleep, a slight but uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

When the sponging doesn’t feel like enough, Bilbo advances to bathing Thorin in bed with an arsenal of towels and a basin of warm, soapy water. Sweating the sickness out of Thorin while preventing him from catching a cold in its place is a delicate balance that Bilbo tries his best to maintain. He keeps Thorin’s skin moist at room temperature and exposes as much of his body to the air as possible, but makes sure not to overdo it with the cooling.

Using most of the towels, he washes Thorin’s arms and face and chest and legs, leaving his nether regions for the last out of respectfulness, though it might also have something to do with the fact that looking at Thorin’s cock — an organ massive in spite of its flaccidness — makes Bilbo’s mouth go impossibly dry. And it’s not just that which Bilbo has trouble tearing his eyes away from more than a couple of times. Sometimes he lets his fingers trail over the expanse of dark, velvety fur on Thorin’s chest for several seconds after wiping it down, feeling the urge to put his lips to each fuzzy nipple. His face is a wonder to behold when still and unmoving apart from the flaring of his nostrils as he breathes, allowing Bilbo to observe as long as he pleases to plan out his kisses. Completely naked, Thorin is brawny and hairy and rugged-looking, altogether much more beautiful than Bilbo could have ever dreamed of.

Bilbo supposes that it was really only a matter of time before they took their physical relationship into the bedroom — ever since the Eyrie they have been doing an inordinate amount of touching and groping and kissing, even as they’ve avoided having sex. He’d been come on to by Thorin at the Carrock, but Bilbo would have rather forgone any number of glorious orgasms than have intercourse in someone else’s home. Especially since said home belongs to a skinchanger more than capable of tearing them both to pieces, no questions asked.

And with all this in mind, Bilbo wonders as he bathes Thorin, lifting his cock and handling a towel under his balls to wipe his hole clean, what it would be like to be pinned down and have Thorin pushing into his body to fuck him open. The things Bilbo would be babbling — Bilbo has no doubt that being penetrated by a cock that huge would force the filthiest things from his mouth, make him grip the sheets and beg for more.

On the fourth day of Thorin’s illness, Bilbo is finishing up with the afternoon bed bath when he notices something that hasn’t happened before.

The thin sheet covering Thorin up to his waist is slightly tented.

How peculiar, Bilbo thinks, until he notices exactly where it’s tented at. Then his mouth falls open slightly when he hears Thorin making a few snuffling noises, between which float the murmured syllables of his name.

“…bo,” Thorin is drowsing, turning his head slightly on the pillow. “Mm…Bilbo —”

“Thorin?” Bilbo whispers in reply, the towels still draped over his arm. He moves closer and listens carefully, but Thorin’s mumbling recedes back into indistinct snorts and snuffles, and eventually he falls silent once more.

The tent in the thin blanket, however, remains.

Bilbo puts the towels down and sits on the edge of the bed, tentatively resting his hand on Thorin’s shoulder. The fever has left his skin warm, although it is not as high as it was the day before. He occupies himself with running his fingers smoothly down Thorin’s arm and checking the pulse at his wrist, holding his hand and releasing it to return to watching Thorin sleep. After an uneventful minute, Bilbo moves his hand to the rug of hair covering Thorin’s chest and rubs gently, not too sure of what he’s doing or why, but he feels his eyes widen when Thorin grunts his name again, a little clearer this time.

Emboldened by this, Bilbo dips his head to plant a kiss into Thorin’s beard, scraping his tongue across his bristly chin on a impulse. The motion leaves a sharp stroke of taste inside his mouth despite the cleanness of Thorin’s face, and Bilbo is suddenly hungry for more. He kisses Thorin on the lips, sipping delicately at the corner of his mouth and pulling playfully on the shorter hairs of Thorin’s beard with his lips. He drags his mouth down Thorin’s throat, kissing each inch of it along the way, until they sink into the tip of his breastbone just above the hand he has on Thorin’s chest. Rising and falling slowly, the bony curves of his ribs are only just palpable beneath the thick hair, and Bilbo moves his hand to scratch lightly at Thorin’s lower belly, patting his muscular stomach and feeling the hard cords of muscle push back. Then, he finally fulfills his desire to kiss both nipples, swirling his tongue covetously around each one and tasting the slightest bit of soap.

Thorin makes a soft smacking sound with his mouth, his jaw moving slightly as if chewing something. Bilbo freezes with his cheek against Thorin’s chest, awaiting any further reaction, and smiles when there is none more than that after a while. His hand travels lower down, slipping under the corner of the sheet and meets coarse hair, where he puts his palm over Thorin’s sizeably hard cock. It is heavy and hot in his hand, and he presses down on it, relishing how it bobs back up into place when he lets go. He’s never seen Thorin entirely erect before, and the chance to observe him in his full glory pushes back all reservations he has as he jerks his wrist repeatedly to slide the sheet to Thorin’s thighs.

Thorin’s cock captures most if not all of Bilbo’s attention. He’s still conscious of his breath being reflected off Thorin’s chest and the radiating warmth of Thorin’s fever against his face, but Bilbo has eyes for nothing but the considerable swell to the length expanding slowly in his hand. It doesn’t take much traction for the skin to draw back off the plump head, revealing a glistening spot of fluid beading at its slit — probably from all the touching and kissing. Rubbing the head with his thumb draws no reaction from Thorin at all besides bringing his cock to half-mast. Bilbo swallows, the temptation of it drawing him in until he is practically ogling Thorin’s cock, exhaling deeply into his groin.

Bilbo rotates his grip experimentally about the base of Thorin’s cock, getting a feel of it. Thorin sniffs obtusely above him, a sleepy, unaware sound. The heat rising off his skin lends strength to Thorin’s natural musky odour, and Bilbo rests his chin on his thigh to just breathe it in drunkenly. The headiness of the scent is almost intoxicating, breaking down Bilbo’s resistance bit by bit, egging him on to push his tongue out to touch the tip to the shaft of Thorin’s cock and drag it up in a lazy, purposeful lick.

He doesn’t retreat when Thorin gurgles and shifts a little under him, and the reaction sparks a filthy sense of arousal in Bilbo’s abdomen. He can already feel himself going hard, and he knows that he should be ashamed at himself for doing this, but he cannot hold back from licking Thorin from root to tip one more time and lapping up the precome that has dribbled down his steadily stiffening cock. Before Bilbo can stop himself, he puts his mouth over the hot, purpling head and gives it a tender suck.

The only reaction to this is a low grunt and the expanding of Thorin on Bilbo’s tongue, accompanied by a tiny buck of his hips. Tasting Thorin down below is a magnificently different experience from his face and neck and chest, Bilbo realises fondly. As expected, Thorin’s pleasing firmness fills his mouth easily, leaving only just enough space to manoeuvre his tongue under and over him. The feel of his flesh on Bilbo’s tongue combined with the sheer intimacy of the moment makes Bilbo’s heart leap with arousal, though it is accompanied by the awareness of how depraved and wrong this is, taking advantage of Thorin in his most vulnerable state. He entertains that seriously and feels disgusted with himself for a moment, but Thorin groans dully and spreads his thighs wider in a irresistibly inviting gesture, giving Bilbo easier access to mouth and lave saliva over his cock, which Bilbo instantly forgets his thoughts for on the spot.

Already past the point of no return, Bilbo takes Thorin deep to a third of his length, not daring to go any further than that for the time being, and pulls back up while tonguing the underside all the way along the fraenulum. The feverish heat and largeness of Thorin is something which makes Bilbo groan with desire; he makes Bilbo’s mouth feel so full with a fraction of his throbbing, leaking flesh, and yet Bilbo only wants more of it.

He lets Thorin slip from his mouth and explores downwards, cradling and thumbing his balls and kissing them before accepting that he may as well go all the way and sucking one in. It tastes faintly of salt and sits heavily on his tongue, feeling foreign for its loose skin and heat but all the more of a turn-on for that. New, but not quite as good. Bilbo returns quickly to Thorin’s cock and seals his lips around the crown and applies pressure on the tight, bulbed glans with his teeth, squeezing it delicately and swiping his tongue across the slit, breaking out a moan in his throat that vibrates around the ache in his jaw. Something inaudible tumbles from Thorin’s lips, a gasp bitten off by lethargy, perhaps; Bilbo pays that little attention while he makes room in his mouth for one of his fingers and gets it completely wet, pulling it out and insinuating it below Thorin’s balls to press at his entrance.

Bilbo taps at Thorin a few times with the pad of his finger in hushed anticipation, the thrill too tantalising to drag out any longer. Like most of his bared body, the rim of Thorin’s hole is burning in relation to Bilbo’s own skin. Pushing his finger slickly into the blazingly hot channel situated between Thorin’s cheeks takes all of a second or two, and Bilbo soaks up the way the intrusion is accepted so willingly, with the sphincter giving a token resistance and then yielding immediately with minimal addition of pressure.

The sight of his finger disappearing into Thorin is one that Bilbo watches intently until his knuckles are underneath Thorin’s balls. Thorin doesn’t stir at the breeching, much less clench on Bilbo, shifting only slightly once Bilbo has seated his finger fully in damp, fever-hot flesh. His breathing turns noisy and he squirms when Bilbo traces a circle inside him his finger. The elevated temperature surrounding Bilbo’s finger warms him to the bone, a sensation he recreates wilfully by pistoning in and out of Thorin on top of the continuous suckles he takes over the head of Thorin’s cock between greedy licks and nips. He strokes gently with his finger, wiggling it and smiling around Thorin’s cock at the grunting noises that Thorin makes.

Fingers push into his curls and Bilbo nearly jumps with fright, his heart rocketing into his throat. He twists his head and looks into a pair of bleary blue eyes with Thorin still in his mouth, like a deer staring down the trajectory of a loaded crossbow. The feeling that Thorin has been observing him for some time now has Bilbo paralysed, the guilt and shame coiling like a snake around the arousal pooled in his belly. Nothing happens for a few long seconds. The two of them stare at each other in silence. Bilbo knows he should really take his mouth off Thorin and pull his finger out right this instant, but instead swallows and gives him a sheepish suck, accenting it with another thrust into his arse.

Thorin inhales deeply and pushes his hips up, his hand on Bilbo’s head countering that motion perfectly with a downward press. “Bilbo,” he slurs, the neediness in his voice much too clear.

“Thorin,” Bilbo tries to say, which is impossible with Thorin pushing into his mouth, and he takes this as his cue to work his tongue, licking and teasing and moving from shaft to head to slit. He continues fucking Thorin tirelessly with his finger and a light sucking all the while, moving his head with the feeble arching of Thorin’s back to avoid gagging, even as the glans bumps into the top of his mouth and bulges against his cheek every now and then.

“Guhh,” Thorin croaks, his eyes closing again. “Bilbo…Bilbo —”

Unable to reply, Bilbo acknowledges this by darting his tongue into Thorin’s slit and spiraling it in. He turns his wrist upward and locates the engorged gland deep inside Thorin to prod and massage at it, timing his thrusts of finger and tongue to synchrony.

“Gods, oh,” Thorin is panting, sentences apparently beyond him. “Yes — Bilbo, oh. You…yes, that’s — that’s…”

“Good?” Bilbo says when he pops off for a second, taking Thorin in again when he nods sleepily.

“Bilbo — oh. Oh, oh. Yes, yes…augh, yes…!”

He’s so close, Bilbo can feel, needing only a bit more to come judging by how Thorin is clenching and gasping inarticulately and his hips are already quivering and —

“I…I,” Thorin stammers, eyelids fluttering. His fingers are tightening in Bilbo’s hair, the muscles in his arse beginning to contract. He whines desperately and his cock twitches to drive the warning home, which Bilbo chooses to ignore as he lets go and floods his pants without even having touched himself once.

“Mm,” Bilbo hums contentedly, bracing himself in time for the thick shots that surge into his mouth, and Bilbo takes care to swallow each pulse before licking Thorin clean, pulling off and wiping his mouth and crawling up to lie next to Thorin, who is still much too tired to move over to make space for him, so Bilbo settles on the edge of the bed, curled against Thorin with his heart racing at the bottom of his throat.

Many minutes pass, and Bilbo is under the impression that Thorin has fallen asleep again before Thorin mumbles, “What.” He turns his head weakly and puts his lips on Bilbo’s forehead and mouths a kiss onto it, his skin still very much fever-warm.

“Sorry,” Bilbo replies quietly, because he honestly does mean it. He couldn’t help himself, but he knows that isn’t an excuse, and now where he doesn’t want Thorin to ever leave him, he’s given him an excellent reason to. With the post-coital bliss dissipating, Bilbo tries to think of some way to explain himself, not that what just happened needs much elaboration.

Bilbo stills when Thorin kisses his forehead again. He looks at his naked, flushed dwarf in wonder, and Thorin says lovingly with a small grin and his eyes still closed, “Don’t be.”


End file.
